We of the Seventh are proud, for our part, that it was our privilege to share our rations with them, and to begin a fraternization which grows closer every day and will be historical.

But I must make a shorter story.  We drilled and were reviewed that morning on the Academy parade.  In the afternoon the Naval School paraded their last before they gave up their barracks to the coming soldiery.  So ended the 23d of April.

Midnight, 24th.  We were rattled up by an alarm,—­perhaps a sham one, to keep us awake and lively.  In a moment, the whole regiment was in order of battle in the moonlight on the parade.  It was a most brilliant spectacle, as company after company rushed forward, with rifles glittering, to take their places in the array.

After this pretty spirt, we were rationed with pork, beef, and bread for three days, and ordered to be ready to march on the instant.

WHAT THE MASSACHUSETTS EIGHTH HAD BEEN DOING.

Meantime General Butler’s command, the Massachusetts Eighth, had been busy knocking disorder in the head.

Presently after their landing, and before they were refreshed, they pushed companies out to occupy the railroad-track beyond the town.

They found it torn up.  No doubt the scamps who did the shabby job fancied that there would be no more travel that way until strawberry-time.  They fancied the Yankees would sit down on the fences and begin to whittle white-oak toothpicks, darning the rebels, through their noses, meanwhile.

I know these men of the Eighth can whittle, and I presume they can say “Darn it,” if occasion requires; but just now track-laying was the business on hand.

“Wanted, experienced track-layers!” was the word along the files.

All at once the line of the road became densely populated with experienced track-layers, fresh from Massachusetts.

Presto change! the rails were relaid, spiked, and the roadway levelled and better ballasted than any road I ever saw south of Mason and Dixon’s line.  “We must leave a good job for these folks to model after,” say the Massachusetts Eighth.

A track without a train is as useless as a gun without a man.  Train and engine must be had.  “Uncle Sam’s mails and troops cannot be stopped another minute,” our energetic friends conclude.  So—­the railroad company’s people being either frightened or false—­in marches Massachusetts to the station.  “We, the People of the United States, want rolling-stock for the use of the Union,” they said, or words to that effect.

The engine—­a frowzy machine at the best—­had been purposely disabled.

Here appeared the deus ex machina, Charles Homans, Beverly Light Guard, Company E, Eighth Massachusetts Regiment.

That is the man, name and titles in full, and he deserves well of his country.

He took a quiet squint at the engine,—­it was as helpless as a boned turkey,—­and he found “Charles Homans, his mark,” written all over it.